caring is (not) an advantage
by Consulting Angel
Summary: five times mycroft didn't care and one time he did. or at least, five times he didn't act like he cared and one time he did.


_one_

Sherlock is nine. He's sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the history test, nearly in shock because there is a red 'C-' at the top of the page. Mycroft enters through the back door and changes into his house shoes, then continues on his way to the staircase.

"I – I don't understand," Sherlock is whispering to the paper. "I – it's…"

Mycroft stops to see what, exactly, his idiot brother is complaining about this time. "Ah," he says when he sees the test. "Colonies."

Sherlock looks up. His eyes are wet and red around the edges. "I – it's not _my_ fault, it's just – stupid – and…"

"Learn your dates next time. You need to pass history." He swipes an apple from the bowl on the counter. "And don't let Father catch you crying over it," he snaps. "He's going to find out anyway. No sense making it worse for yourself."

Sherlock wipes at his eyes with his sleeve and stares daggers at the back of his stupid brother's head. _I bet _he _never failed history. He probably never failed anything. He probably never even had to study for –_

"Keep it down. I've A-levels to study for," Mycroft throws over his shoulder as he ascends the stairs.

_two_

Sherlock is eleven. He's staring at the freshly replaced soil a step in front of him. The little wooden plaque he made with a piece of scrap wood and a Sharpie is blurry through tearing eyes. _Redbeard. Conquerer of the Seven Seas. 1977-1986._

"Surely this isn't a surprise."

Sherlock jumps a little at the sharp voice behind him.

"You were there to see the euthanasia. You read about it beforehand." Mycroft sighs through his nose. "You can't have expected him to live forever."

Sherlock sniffles and wipes at his nose with his sleeve. "I – he was still my dog…"

"No-one lives forever, Sherlock. No dog, for that matter." He critiques the handwritten headstone. "Conqueror. It's an 'o', not an 'e', at the end."

Sherlock turns to glare at his idiot older brother. He _knows _how to spell it, he was just a little preoccupied at the time. He doesn't see why he bothered to come home from uni for this, anyway.

"Job interview. I didn't take the suit I needed to Cambridge with me," he explains, unfazed by the glare. He turns on his heel and walks away from the impromptu gravesite, opening his omnipresent umbrella as he leaves the cover of the tree above for the perpetually falling rain. "It was only a dog, Sherlock."

"Is that what I'm supposed to say if you die? Or Mummy?" Sherlock demands. "It's only a human. No-one lives forever." His voice takes on a higher pitch as he mimics Mycroft's words.

Mycroft does not turn to respond. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

_three_

Sherlock is seventeen. His face is red, from both the blush of fury and the sting of Mycroft's hand across his face.

"You told me you stopped three months ago," Mycroft spits out. He doesn't raise his voice, not even now, nor does he lose his collected demeanor. Sherlock hates him for it.

"I. Lied." Sherlock very nearly throws the half-empty pack of cigarettes at his stupid brother's face. _Stupid_ Mycroft, with his _stupid_ suit and his _stupid_ tie and his _stupid _umbrella and his _stupid _–

The cigarettes spill out of the carton when it lands in front of Mycroft's _stupid _wing-tipped shoes.

"People do that, don't they? _Lie_? Isn't that your job now? Christ, can't even do your _fucking_ job – that's why you're so goddamned pissed, isn't it, it's because I _lied_ and it took you _this fucking long_ to find out!"

Mycroft slaps him again. "You will stop."

"Or. What." Sherlock is seeing red; he has not heard Mycroft explain that this is for Sherlock's health or that he does not need his brother dying of emphysema before he is thirty or that –

"Or you will go to rehab."

Sherlock laughs. "Rehab? _Rehab_? You'd send me to fucking _rehab _for – for _smoking_? For doing something perfectly legal – you should know all about that, you and your bloody _job_ and all – that millions of people do every single day?"

"I'd send you to 'fucking rehab' because I know you and I know your personality and I know that it won't stop with smoking. It won't stop until you've tried every drug on the streets, legal or otherwise, and you've gotten yourself put into a chemical induced coma so that you'll stop screaming through the withdrawal."

Christ, why can't he just _shout_? Why must he continue to be so goddamn _logical _and _calm _and –

It's six months before Mycroft drops a pamphlet on a table next to a hospital bed. "Cannes," he says. Sherlock lies before him, all but unconscious. The doctor could hardly believe he was still alive when the toxicology report came back. 'That much coke in his system, and him not dead? He's been using it for a lot more than four months, sir,' he had told Mycroft. "You'll leave on a private jet in three days. Don't worry about packing."

"Fuck you," Sherlock mutters without opening his eyes.

Mycroft slams the door behind him and pretends not to remember that his foolish younger brother is suffering a rather excruciating migraine as the hospital staff attempt to flush the drugs from his system.

_four_

Sherlock is twenty-seven. He looks over a thin file, spread out over the desk between him and his brother. "You want me to go to Belarus for a serial killer? Haven't they got their own law enforcement?"

"I need you to go to Belarus because the British and Serbian governments cannot afford for this serial killer to remain on the streets, and the Serbian government does not seem capable of finding so much as a whisper of the man aside from his corpses."

"Man?"

Mycroft sighs. "Man. Woman. Does it matter?"

"I'm sure to them it does." He picks up a particularly gruesome photograph. "I'm busy here."

"With what? Your – 'experiments'?"

"Yes, my experiments. The vast majority of which are perfectly harmless provided that one does not suffer a weak stomach. Whereas I see at least two – perhaps three – dozen opportunities for mortal harm to myself am I to take this case for you."

"I trust your ability to handle yourself. If you require assistance, I can get you people in less than an hour."

Sherlock sets the photo down and stares at his brother. "I could die. You want to be the one to send me to my death?"

"I sincerely doubt that you will die." He smiles tersely. "The universe could only hope to be so fortunate. At any rate, I would be willing to risk one life for the sake of the avoidance of a multi-continental war."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "My life?"

Mycroft stands. "I am not here to debate whether or not one life is equal to another. I've booked you a flight for tomorrow evening. Pack light."

_five_

Sherlock is thirty-three.

"WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I GIVE A FUCKING SHIT ABOUT YOUR GODDAMNED FOOT?"

His shouting echoes through the manor. Mycroft's manor. His goddamned stupid fucking moron piece of shit brother's manor how did the goddamned bastard get the fucking authority to do this to him this must be fucking illegal or at least against the god-fucking-damned Geneva Convention and Mycroft should know all about that the sick bastard –

Mycroft limps down the hall. Perhaps the bullet was dipped in acid before piercing his left foot. That might begin to explain the pain. He tells someone to reinforce the lock on the room at the end of the hall. Not that he is worried about Sherlock leaving – the man shoved the bed against the door before the high could wear off.

Why couldn't he learn, why couldn't he just understand that this was for his own good? He could not keep getting high. High off cases, fine. High off cocaine? For God's sake, he was lucky he wasn't dead yet.

"Yes, thank you," he says to someone who pours him a scotch. He leans the cane against the table and sits down, sighing to relieve the pressure from his foot.

Perhaps he is underestimating the pain of withdrawal.

Something shatters against the wall upstairs. Lamp. Damn; he'd rather liked that one. Suppose it was his fault for leaving it in Sherlock's room.

But then, isn't it Sherlock's own fault for getting high? He'd been doing so well, too. Almost eight years. Assuming Mycroft had never missed anything, and that record… well, it's become harder to trust recently. Sherlock enjoys proving his ability to get around his brother's back.

Mycroft sighs and swirls the amber liquid in the glass.

"YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT I FUCKING HATE YOU WHY THE FUCK DOES ANYONE EVEN TALK TO YOU DO YOU JUST FOR FUCK'S SAKE CHRIST!"

And so on and so forth, until Sherlock reaches the point where any light and any sound and any motion hurts like the eleventh god-fucking-damned circle of hell, and he buries himself in the bed still shoved against the door. Probably not the best decision on his part, but then, he was not exactly rational at the time – but there is no way for anyone to bring him water or paracetamol even if they did wish to.

_six_

Sherlock is thirty-eight.

There is a tourniquet around his upper arm and he is seriously contemplating stabbing the seven (or is it seventeen?) percent solution syringe into his very visible vein.

"Sherlock."

Mycroft's voice is quiet. Sherlock does not look up, though he wonders when Mycroft entered that he did not hear it.

"Put it down, Sherlock."

Mycroft's voice is gentle. Sherlock contemplates all possible reasons for this.

"If you're here to remind me about your bloody caring mantra, I think it's a bit late for that," Sherlock snaps, staring at an air bubble he has not yet bothered to tap out of the syringe.

"Go to bed." Still quiet, still gentle.

Sherlock finally does look up. His eyes are red-rimmed and his irises are a bland grey and his face is sallow and he looks like the waking dead. "Things will be better in the morning, is that it?"

Mycroft takes the short step to the chair Sherlock is curled up in. He moves slowly. No surprises. "No," he says simply, and he takes the needle from his brother. "But you haven't slept since the wedding on Saturday, and it's almost Friday." He unties the tourniquet from the pale arm.

Sherlock drops his head to tell Mycroft's knees, "I was his best man." He still can hardly believe the words. "I was his best man," he repeats.

Mycroft pulls his brother to his feet. He says nothing, because what can he say?

He tucks the down duvet around Sherlock – already resuming his foetal position – and brushes a curl from his forehead. He strongly suspects his brother had not moved from that chair since leaving the reception without so much as a goodbye to the newlyweds.

"Sleep," he says, flicking the light off. He does not pull the door shut until he can see that Sherlock has closed his eyes, and then he busies himself cleaning the flat. Of all the things for him to be doing now, but what else is there? He can't leave. Not now.

He finds the rings in an unmarked black box the size of his fist, tucked inside the skull on the mantle. Two matching bands, white gold. Plain as can be at first glance. A closer inspection reveals the initials engraved into the inside. SH and JW, each on the other's respective band. Not that it took a genius to see that they had been sized for each of their fingers.

He wonders how long the rings have been there, and then replaces the box and moves on to the kitchen to scrape mold from test tubes.


End file.
